


Frostbite

by omgericzimmermann (HMSLusitania)



Series: The Samwell Irregulars [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, backstory of the superhero au, sorry - Freeform, superhero au, yes i've returned from the dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9328151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HMSLusitania/pseuds/omgericzimmermann
Summary: Eric Bittle has a lot of misgivings about taking in the man who appeared out of nowhere during a snowstorm. But maybe it's not the worst idea he's ever had.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of the superhero AU. So while Dex and Nursey and Ransom and Holster were figuring out their powers, this is what Jack was up to. You don't need to have read the others first, but it'll lessen some of the suspense. 
> 
> I am also terribly sorry for how long this took me to get up. I wrote...90% of it today.
> 
> ETA: now with accurate French accents that I did know were incorrect as I was posting them, I was just being lazy, I promise.

Eric lives alone. He likes it that way, his small house in the middle of nowhere. He’s got solar panels, he’s got a garden, the house is paid for. He has his work at the diner, but he doesn’t have to leave their kitchen for that. He can just stay in the back and people will eat his pies and everything is fine.

An off seasonal snowstorm is really not what he needs. It’s too early for snow, but there’s nothing else those clouds could be, he realises as he stands in his garden looking up. He’s pretty much the only person in the state of Massachusetts with a peach tree, and he’s a little worried about it. He briefly considers wrapping it in scarves, but he realises that that would be silly since it has weathered every other winter in Massachusetts. So what if winter happens to come in October this year?

He retreats inside and makes a mug of cocoa while the snow breaks. The amount that’s falling and the speed with which it’s collecting on his grass is making him think of flash floods and he doesn’t like it. If he’s not careful, he’ll be snowed in. With that in mind, he bundles up and marches out to the back stairs so he can keep them shovelled off.

As suddenly as the bitter cold starts, it stops. It just…disappears. The clouds stay, heavy and white and fluffy like whipped cream or a particularly artful meringue, low in the sky. But at least it stops snowing. Eric isn’t sure what to make of that.

He makes sure his porch is clear and he can get out of his house and turns to go back in.

“ _Désolé,”_ a voice says from behind him. It’s a man’s voice. Eric is the only person to set foot on his property for the last five years. “ _M’aidez, s’il vous plaît.”_

French was not Eric’s strong suit in college, but he recognises the cadence of the language. He turns to discover a tall man who is not remotely prepared for the weather staggering through his yard.

For a minute, they stare at each other at an impasse.

“ _S’il vous plaît,_ ” the stranger repeats, and then he slumps unconscious in the snow.

* * *

 

It takes Eric a good ten minutes to drag the stranger into his house. He leaves a puddle of melted snow from his boots, but the snow that’s stuck to the stranger’s red flannel shirt doesn’t melt. It just stays glued to his jeans and his flannel and when Eric puts his newly gloveless fingers against the stranger’s neck, he’s cold to the touch.

He knows the right thing to do is put the man in a warm bath, but he’s not sure he can physically haul the man into his bathtub and he’s also damn sure that if he were in the stranger’s position, there would be no force in the world that would convince him being stripped bare by a complete stranger and dropped into a bathtub wasn’t some kind of sexual malfeasance.

Eric settles for wrapping the man in a few quilts and dragging him over to the fireplace. He leaves him there and goes to get more hot chocolate, but when he comes back, ice has crept over the quilts.

And yeah, Eric’s pretty sure he’s been alone too long because he’s very obviously going crazy.

This doesn’t stop him from drinking his hot chocolate in a ball on the couch, staring at the stranger. He’s got a striking profile, his forehead smooth, his nose sharp and pin straight. His lips look soft, and in another life, Eric might not mind kissing him. His hair is black and aside from the fact it’s frozen into icicles, it looks like it’s usually soft to the touch. He’s got the faintest of smile lines on his eyes, and he’s probably only a few years older than Eric.

Eric can see him breathing, and his skin looks like it’s a normal human colour – not blue like his ice shroud would suggest. Now torn between curiosity and fear, Eric crouches next to him and presses two fingers to his pulse. It’s strong and steady, but slow. His skin is still ice cold.

Eric moves his hand up and tests the temperature on the stranger’s forehead. It’s just as cold as his neck. Before he can take his hand away, the stranger’s hand shoots up and grabs him by the wrist. His eyes flutter open – bright blue – and outside it starts to snow again.

“Please let go of me,” Eric says, trying to pull his hand out of the stranger’s grasp. The stranger lets go almost immediately and Eric cradles his wrist back to his chest. His skin is red like he’s left an ice cube on it for too long.

“ _Qui êtes-vous?_ ” the stranger asks.

“My French is godawful,” Eric replies, retreating towards the couch. The stranger is giving off waves of cold air and it’s making Eric even more nervous.

“Who are you?” the stranger tries again, and this time his accent isn’t French. He might be Canadian.

“You’re the one who turned up in my yard,” Eric points out. “So who are you?”

The stranger sits up and runs a concerned hand through his hair. His cheekbones are a revelation, Eric notices.

“I don’t know,” the stranger says.

* * *

 

Eric – without touching him – gets the stranger up the stairs to the bathroom and helps him get the tub set up. He doesn’t mention his fear that the water’s going to freeze around the stranger, because that’s clearly a sign of impending mental fractures and also physically impossible.

“I don’t think I’ll have any clothes that’ll fit you,” Eric apologises, although he’s not sure why _he’s_ apologising since the stranger is the one who’s dropped by unannounced. “But if you give me those while you bathe, I can put them in the dryer. At least it should get the ice off them.”

“Why am I covered in ice?” the stranger asks.

“Honey, I have no idea,” Eric says. The stranger’s eyes flick up when Eric accidentally uses the endearment, but he doesn’t seem overly concerned. He’s just confused. “And actually, here, my bathrobe ought to at least cover you up and keep you warm while I take your clothes.”

The stranger nods and closes the bathroom door. Eric waits for a moment and then it opens. The stranger looks ridiculous in Eric’s bathrobe, since it only hits him at mid-thigh and were he to sit down, Eric would get an eyeful. But the stranger hands over his icy clothes and shuts the door again, so Eric retreats to the downstairs. It’s safer there.

Once the stranger’s clothes are in the dryer he can’t stop himself from making a pie. He douses it liberally in maple syrup, fills it with apples. He takes comfort in the process, cutting the butter into the flour, rolling out the dough, peeling the apples. He’s got the pie in the oven by the time the dryer dings, so he folds the clothes and carries them back upstairs, setting them on a chair in the hallway. He knocks on the bathroom door, hesitant.

“Are you frozen in there?” he asks.

“No,” the stranger says. “But the water’s getting cold.”

“Your clothes are outside. I’ll be downstairs,” Eric says. He beats a hasty retreat and hides in the kitchen.

It’s a few minutes later that the stranger finds him and then stands awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asks.

“Eric,” he says. “What’s yours?”

The stranger thinks about it for a moment and then shrugs helplessly.

“I suppose we could just call you John Doe and check the missing person ads until we find your real name,” Eric suggests. He considers the stranger – all tall, dark, handsome as hell. John doesn’t suit him. It’s too plain. “Or Jack? It’s a pretty common nickname for John where I’m from.”

The stranger frowns, his eyebrows contracting in the centre of his forehead.

“What?” Eric asks.

“It sounds familiar,” the stranger – Jack now – says. “The name.”

Eric smiles. “It’s a pretty common name,” he says. “There’s a fairly decent chance your name actually is Jack or John.”

The stranger nods. “Where are we?” he asks.

“Western Massachusetts,” Eric says. “Small town. You’re not from here.”

He’d know. He’d recognise the handsome stranger – Jack – if he was from Eric’s town. Hell, Eric would’ve swooned all over him if he was from town.

“No, I don’t think so,” Jack agrees. He stares into the middle distance with arctic blue eyes that make Eric want to hug him. It’s a problem, he realizes. He hasn’t wanted to hug anyone in a good long while.

“I should – I should go,” Jack says.

“Go where?” Eric asks, opening the oven door and checking on the pie. “You don’t know who you are or where you’re from and it’s snowing like the devil out there.”

Jack looks out the kitchen window and then nods in uncomfortable agreement. He looks over Eric’s shoulder at the pie and swallows. “Is that pie?”

“Maple-apple,” Eric agrees, shutting the door. “It’s one of my specialties. I do all the baking for the diner in town.”

Jack nods and then, cautiously, like he’s afraid of breaking something, sits down at Eric’s kitchen table.

Eric furnishes him with a cup of coffee and when the pie is out of the oven, Eric gives him a slice. Jack’s eyes shoot open wide when he tastes it, like he’s never experienced something so delightful before in his life. Eric tries not to beam but can’t really help it.

“You know, I’ve got a guest room where you can stay while we wait for the snow to stop,” Eric says. “And we can check missing person ads if you like.”

“I don’t think I’ve been missing that long,” Jack says. “I know that sounds weird but I don’t think it’s been long enough for there to be ads yet.”

Eric purses his lips and then shrugs. “Then I guess you’ll just stay until we can figure out who you are. You can come with me to the diner if you’d like.”

Jack agrees and the next day, they get bundled up in snow gear, Jack borrowing an old sweater of Eric’s and a scarf and hat, but otherwise claiming he isn’t cold, and head to the diner in Eric’s truck. The other workers at the diner are confused by Jack’s presence but don’t say anything where Eric can hear them and instead watch Jack out of the corner of their eyes while he sits at the counter nursing a cup of coffee that seems bottomless.

“Who’s the boyfriend, Eric?” Tisha, one of the waitresses, asks around noon.

“Oh, he’s not my – it’s weird,” Eric says, rolling out the crust for a chocolate pie. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We all worry about you, honey, you gotta know that,” Tisha says, kissing Eric on the side of the head. “At least he’s pretty.”

“Yeah, he sure is that,” Eric agrees, glancing over at Jack, who’s reading the paper.

Jack is quiet on the drive home, watching the snow build up on the roads and the farms.

“Do you like snow?” Eric asks.

“Oh, uh, yeah I think so,” Jack says. “I don’t really know if I did before but I like it.”

Eric allows himself a smile and parks the truck. He doesn’t mention the fact Jack gave off ice when he first pulled him inside, mostly because he’s still trying to convince himself he hallucinated that whole bit.

“That was all they were talking about in the paper,” Jack says suddenly. “The snow. They had three articles on it.”

“It’s a small town,” Eric says, pulling off his coat and hanging it up in the mud room. Jack mimics him with his sweater and scarf. When he pulls off the hat, his black hair is sticking up in funny angles that make Eric itch to smooth it down.

“Apparently it’s unseasonal weather for October,” Jack says.

“Well that’s for sure,” Eric agrees. “I wonder if the pond’s frozen yet.”

He shrugs to himself and opens the fridge, pulling out a selection of vegetables and a few chicken breasts to start on a chicken pot pie. As soon as he starts rolling out the dough for the crust, Jack surprises him with a burst of laughter.

“What?” Eric asks, nearly dropping the knife he’d been using to pare carrots.

“Do you cook anything that isn’t pie?” Jack asks.

“I will have you know Mr…whatever your last name is that I am the most renowned pie chef in three counties,” Eric says, turning his nose up at the mirth in Jack’s eyes.

“So that’s a no, right?” Jack replies.

Eric scoffs and flicks a pinch of flour at him.

“Why did you want to know if the pond was frozen?” Jack asks once Eric has the chicken pot pie in the oven.

“Oh, it’s just the best part of winter,” Eric says, starting a batch of cookies for dessert. He doesn’t really intend it as a “screw you Jack I can too make something besides pie” but he’s a little worried that’s how it comes across. “Ice skating. I used to figure skate before – anyway. It’s just fun.”

“Before what?” Jack asks, leaning on the counter next to him and stealing a pinch of cookie dough. Eric smacks his hand.

“Never you mind,” Eric says. “It doesn’t matter.”

Jack seems briefly inclined to argue, and Eric wonders if it’s simply because he’s bored. Eric would be bored if he didn’t know anything about his own life.

“So do you remember anything?” Eric asks.

Jack shakes his head. “It’s just a big blank. Like a whiteout.”

* * *

 

Eric doesn’t know if Jack’s words are prophetic by design or odd accident, but either way when he wakes up in the morning, he’s got a message from the diner saying it’s going to be closed for the day like everything else in town due to the snow.

“Have you ever been ice skating?” Eric asks Jack while they have coffee and pancakes.

Jack gives him a blank look until Eric could almost kick himself.

“Sorry,” he says. “Do you want to come with me?”

“I don’t think your skates will fit me,” Jack says, which, well, he’s not wrong.

“No I’ve got an old hockey pair that used to belong to—anyway, they should fit you,” Eric says, hoping he can still find them.

He does, and they fit Jack just fine.

Jack is a natural on the skates, and although Eric is faster and more agile, Jack is a phenomenal skater. At one point, Jack pulls a hockey stop in front of him and sends a spray of ice cascading upwards, and upwards, and it freezes in place in mid-air. Both Eric and Jack stop to stare at it.

“Uh,” Jack says, skating around the ice sculpture he’s accidentally created. “How does that happen?”

Eric doesn’t have an answer for him and then looks at the ice behind Jack. His skates haven’t been leaving marks.

As October melds into November, the snow storm shows no signs of abating, and so life in Eric’s small town has to resume as normal. Eric doesn’t tell Jack, but he spends a good long while scanning the missing person ads online. None of them match Jack’s description – 6’1”, 210 pounds of shockingly well built specimen, blue eyes, black hair, late twenties to early thirties, stunningly gorgeous.

After two weeks, no one in town questions Jack’s presence anymore, and they start referring to him as if he’s a normal member of town life. He takes a job behind the counter at the diner, and proves to be a skilled line cook, which leads to some interesting nights at home. Eric always wants to do the cooking, but Jack starts insisting he’s perfectly capable of helping and surely it’s the least he can do after Eric’s let him live there for weeks with no knowledge of Jack’s previous life.

“Why do you have skates that fit me?” Jack asks in the first weeks of November while they’re taking their off Sunday to skate on the pond. Jack has decided that he loves skating, and the snow, and also hash browns and chicken strips. Eric has no idea if he liked those things before, or what people recovering from amnesia like this usually experience, but it’s all very endearing.

“They belonged to someone,” Eric says. “Just like the clothes you’ve been borrowing.”

Jack nods and looks down at his borrowed sweater.

Eric sighs. He feels compelled to tell Jack, if for no other reason than it feels dishonest not to.

“They belonged to my boyfriend,” Eric says, waiting for Jack’s reproach.

What he doesn’t expect is Jack’s frown of confusion.

“Why did he leave his clothes?” Jack asks. “And his hockey skates?”

“I dunno, he left everything,” Eric snaps, harsher than he means to. “Left me the house, all his things, all the repercussions of being gay in the south, everything except his bank account and his passport.”

Jack looks at him with something Eric recognizes as sympathy.

“He left you,” Jack summarizes.

“Yeah,” Eric agrees. He doesn’t think about John often, or tries very hard not to, but sometimes it’s impossible to avoid. “A few years ago. Kept rambling about how the CIA was gonna find out about narration and aliens and I dunno. It was all very X-Files.”

“What’s the X-Files?” Jack asks.

When they get back to the house, Eric convinces Jack that since he doesn’t remember anything about pop culture, surely it is Eric’s job to teach him. Jack willingly sits on the couch next to him while Eric explains the X-Files to him.

It’s later that night that Jack voices a concern.

“I’ve been thinking about the snow, and about what happened with the skates the other day,” he says. “And I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think it’s because of me.”

Eric swallows the last mouthful of his hot chocolate.

“When I pulled you inside the first day you showed up, you were covered in frost,” he says. “I thought I was going crazy.”

“No, I don’t think you were,” Jack says. “Or if you were, so am I.”

“Well that’s comforting,” Eric says.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it much at the diner the next day, which Eric thinks is ultimately for the better. They’ve both quite clearly lost the plot, and Jack especially is suffering from amnesia of the highest order.

But the day after that, Jack goes to grab a plate from the cabinet at home and it bursts into ice crystals. Jack and Eric both stare at it. They hadn’t been doing anything unusual. The oddest thing about their conversation had been Jack asking Eric about his childhood in Georgia and Eric asking Jack if he had any idea what it felt like to be in the closet. Eric had asked mostly for his own sake. Partly it was because he wanted to know how in depth he was going to have to go to explain his early life to Jack, and partly because he wanted to know if there was a snowball’s chance in hell that Jack was attracted to men.

And then the plate froze solid.

“Do you suppose it has something to do with emotions?” Eric asks.

“I don’t know,” Jack says quietly. “You asked if I knew what being in the closet felt like and I got…nervous? Like I couldn’t breathe right.”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Eric says, gently taking the ice cold plate from him. He doesn’t mean to leave his hand on Jack’s shoulder, but he does. Jack looks at it and then back at Eric’s face.

“Why are you nice to me?” Jack asks.

“What kinda question is that?” Eric replies.

“I mean your last boyfriend left after dragging you to Massachusetts in a permanent enough way that you can’t even go back to Georgia if you want to, so why would you be nice to me?” Jack asks.

Eric swallows nervously. “That question supposes a lot, Mr Smith.”

“Like what?” Jack asks, his eyes flicking from Eric’s down to – he can’t be looking at Eric’s mouth can he?

“Like the idea you’re on par with my last boyfriend,” Eric says.

Jack’s eyes do the flickering thing again from Eric’s eyes to his lips and Eric’s not really sure which of them moves first but the next thing he knows, he’s on his toes with Jack’s lips pressed firmly against his own and Jack’s hands hovering on either side of his face like he’s afraid to touch him.

Eric steps back, suddenly worried he’s overstepped, but Jack grabs the pockets on his hoodie and pulls him closer.

“I just – was worried that if I touched you I’d freeze you,” Jack says.

Eric doesn’t really mean to burst out laughing, but he does, and then he finds himself with his face buried in Jack’s chest, while Jack very cautiously puts his arms around him.

* * *

 

If people at the diner notice anything different about the way their line cook and baker are behaving, they don’t say anything. Eric had been scared of the townsfolk in his village for all of fifteen minutes when he’d first moved there, but had quickly come to realize that A) they protected their own, B) they considered Eric one of their own, and C) they didn’t care a single whit if he was gayer than an Elton John concert. And maybe Tisha started giving him a sideways, amused look when he and Jack brushed past each other in the kitchen at work, or when they got into the truck at the end of the day and Jack leaned over to kiss him.

It would’ve been perfect if not for the lingering knowledge that neither Eric nor Jack had any idea who Jack had been before, or if they could somehow escape the fact the snow hadn’t let up and Jack was starting to be able to freeze things at will.

“Do you think I’m the one responsible for the weather?” Jack asks, a few days before Thanksgiving, his head pillowed on Eric’s lap while they watched back episodes of Chopped on Netflix. Eric strokes his hand through Jack’s hair and bends down to kiss his forehead.

“I don’t know,” Eric says. “I suppose you could be.”

“Because I was reading the news and they said some guy over near Salem stopped a fallen power line with his bare hands,” Jack says. “And there have been reports of superheroes of some sort over in Boston, like actual comic book ones like that Captain America movie we watched, and I don’t know.”

“You think you might be like them?” Eric guesses.

“Well I’m certainly not normal,” Jack says.

“I like you however you might be,” Eric says, bending down to kiss him properly. Jack smiles into the kiss, and the subject is dropped. At least until the next day when they get to the diner and Tisha is waiting for them, her brown eyes huge.

 “You guys have to see this,” she says, handing them the _Daily World_. It’s the sports section, which is not a section Eric typically reads, but he understands why Tisha’s handed it to them as soon as he sees the headline.

_Zimmermann Remembered_

_By Kent Parson_

_Thousands of Falconers fans flooded the streets of Providence, RI this weekend to mourn the loss and celebrate the life of Falconers Captain Jack Zimmermann. Zimmermann was drafted to the Falconers shortly before his eighteenth birthday after winning the Memorial Cup with Rimouski-Oceanic as part of the QMJHL, and led the Falconers to multiple Stanley Cups in the intervening years. He made captain after only a year on the team, the youngest captain to win the Stanley Cup to this day._

_Zimmermann was the son of former hockey legend Robert “Bad Bob” Zimmermann, who won the cup with the Canadiens, the Penguins, and the Canadiens again during his years playing for the league. Tragically, Bad Bob died in a plane crash in Russia when his son Jack was only seventeen. Jack’s mother, Dr Alicia Zimmermann is the director of the Samwell Institute, a scientific think-tank based in Boston. It was during an experiment gone wrong at Samwell Institute that Jack Zimmermann died, after heroically removing his mother from harm’s way._

Eric looks away from the article. It goes on to list Jack’s various accomplishments and awards in the hockey world, of which there are many. He’s apparently one of the most decorated players ever. And there’s no mistaking it. The man in the memorial picture is Eric’s Jack.

Jack looks from the paper to Eric to Tisha and then back to the paper.

“Eric, can I borrow your phone?” Jack asks, sounding much calmer than Eric would’ve expected. Eric nods and hands it over. “I’m gonna be in the truck for a bit.”

Eric must look deeply concerned, because Jack leans down to kiss him quickly.

“I’m fine, I promise,” he says, and heads out before Eric can point out that that’s what’s worrying him.

Jack doesn’t come back inside for an hour. Tisha and Eric take it in turns watching him out the windows of the diner and Eric is gratified that Tisha seems as nervous as he does.

“I guess that’s why we never found him in a missing person ad,” Eric says. “They don’t think he’s missing. They think he’s dead.”

“And I guess that’s why he likes ice skating so much,” Tisha says. “Because he’s a hockey player.”

Eric nods. The town knows for damn sure that Eric and Jack are together and they’re pretty aware that Jack is special. But now that they know who Jack is…Eric doesn’t mean to worry but he can’t help it. Jack was famous before, and would be extra doubly so if people knew he not only survived whatever accident it was at Samwell Institute, but that he was capable of controlling ice and snow. The creepy CIA people John used to talk about, the Spooks, they would come for Jack and Bitty doesn’t think he can stand to lose him.

Jack returns to the diner after an hour and a half of doing something on Eric’s phone. Jack’s just got a burner of his own, so Eric assumes he was doing something on the internet. Jack looks a little shaken, but not distressed by any means. He chats with the regulars like nothing’s wrong, and he makes sure they’re all given their preferred fried green tomatoes and burgers and etc. Eric doesn't mean to watch him nervously the whole day, but he does anyway.

“Are you helping host the lonely assholes’ Thanksgiving this year, Jack?” the sheriff asks when he comes in for his slice of pie and cup of coffee like he does every day at three.

Eric can see the copy of the _Daily World_ sticking out of his pocket, but the sheriff doesn’t seem to mind.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jack says, with a quick smile that seems to reassure the sheriff.

The sheriff nods like this is the right answer and takes another bite of his cherry pie. He reaches for the paper in his pocket and then pauses.

“I suppose you already saw the paper,” he says.

“We did, yeah,” Eric agrees.

“I don’t suppose there’s anyone you want us to contact for you,” the sheriff offers.

Eric finds he’s incredibly nervous about Jack’s answer.

“No, I don’t think so,” Jack says. “But thank you.”

The sheriff nods like this is the right answer as well. “And you know, son, we’ve got a beer league that goes out for shinny ever so often if you ever felt like joining the law enforcement’s team and givin’ us an edge.”

Jack smiles at him, a little awkwardly, and the sheriff leaves.

As they’re driving home, Eric can’t find the right way to phrase his question. Jack knows who he is now. Surely that means he wants to go back to his old life. And since he’s a professional hockey player, that surely means darting right back into the closet. And Eric doesn’t know if he can do that. Actually, he’s fairly sure he cannot do that.

“You know, I still don’t remember anything,” Jack says as they park and head for the house. “I spent an hour and a half looking at my Wikipedia page and every post game interview I’ve given since I was eighteen years old and it was like looking into one of the scary funhouse mirrors.”

Eric glances at him, and feels something like hope.

“I was…I don’t remember what was going through my head obviously, but I can’t imagine I liked who I was,” Jack says. “Back then.”

“Oh,” Eric says, because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say.

“I like who I am here,” Jack says. “I like being with you.”

Eric is fairly sure he’s going to cry while he pulls Jack into a tight hug that Jack reciprocates. Jack is clearly feeling emotional too, because Eric feels ice crystals start to pull across his jacket.

“Careful, honey, you’re gonna give me frostbite,” Eric says.

“Sorry,” Jack says, pulling his hands away from Eric’s coat. They’re blue, and shiny with crystallization. Eric takes one of them in his gloved hand and watches as a little bit of color comes back.

“I guess we’ll have to work on that,” Eric says.

“Well we’ve got time,” Jack says. He presses his forehead against Eric’s. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, I'm the worst, I'm sorry this took so long, god knows when "The Plot Thickens" will go up, etc. I'm sorry. 
> 
> Come cry with me on [tumblr](http://omgericzimmermann.tumblr.com)


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